L4D2: Giving Up Involves More Than One Person
by hidden-in-a-tree
Summary: How much more can one man endure without snapping? Oneshot. Tragedy. Rated M. Nick's POV. Language warning.


**Author's Note: **This one's rated mature for obvious reasons, once you read it. No slash this time. Couldn't put it in, due to the circumstances. Darkness is dead ahead.

Oneshot. Tragedy. Rated M. Nick's POV. Language warning.

**Disclaimer: **As always, I don't own anything mentioned. Well, maybe I do, but whatever.

**Acknowledgements: **A heartfelt thank you to Sean for his encouragement and compliments, and also for reading this over with a critical eye. I'd also like to thank Amanda for looking this over as well; she truly is my favorite editor.

**Summary: **How much more can one man endure without snapping?

**L4D2: Giving Up Involves More Than One Person**

They were almost at the bridge. Maybe one or two more safe houses to go, and if they survived … safety.

To Nick, the word 'safety' had lost all meaning. It had been erased from his inner dictionary the day the infection had hit. If he was honest with himself, he didn't know if he'd ever be able to recall that definition again.

As he ran, an axe in his hands, he saw a spray-painted drawing of a house on a cement wall to his left. He knew they were close, so close.

"Safe house, straight ahead!" he yelled, dodging an infected person to his right.

And then someone threw a Molotov.

The explosion was deafening; the smoke spread quickly, unbelievably quickly, obscuring everything he could see; the heat was fucking insane.

The person had thrown it right at him – he had no choice but to sprint through it, the heat singeing every part of him. He felt his hair catch on fire, but he didn't stop. His hair would re-grow. A limb that an infected person had bitten, though, that was a different story.

As he swung his axe every which way through the smoke, he heard a hunter scream shrilly somewhere to his left.

"HUNTER!" Nick bellowed, hoping someone would hear him. Only the infected people responded.

He continued to run to where he'd seen the diagram of the safe house.

He was through the smoke now: he could see the red barred door just ahead of him, and then he tripped. The shriek that escaped his throat as he went down made him more terrified than he'd ever been.

Was that really him screaming like that? Like it was the end?

His knees ached from the sudden impact. His eyes burned from the Molotov. His scalp hurt, and his white suit was now sooty and black. His mind was a blur of fear: where was Ellis? Rochelle? Coach?

He heard the bellow of a female infected behind him, and Nick didn't look back. He scrambled to his feet and raced as fast as he could to the safe house door.

It was locked.

"OPEN THE FUCKING DOOR! OPEN IT!" Nick roared, straining his eyes to see if someone had beaten him there. Someone had to be inside; he could see the person's shadow. "OPEN THE FUCKING DOOR!"

The infected person behind him yowled loudly, and he spun like a top, his axe up to defend himself. The infected person had once been beautiful, but her eyes were shining white in the evening light, making her look ghastly. Her skin was saggy and gray. Her hair, what was left of it, was limp and ashen colored. Her once nice clothes were hanging off her body in tatters.

Nick didn't even hesitate as he swung the axe as hard as he could, decapitating her.

"OPEN THE DOOR!" he yelled loudly, and the door opened. Nick toppled inside the room, scooting on his butt as he tried to get away from the door as it clanged shut.

Standing beside it was a young girl, her face bloodless, and Nick could see her shaking.

"Are there more coming?" she whispered, her voice hoarse.

Nick nodded, still staring at the girl. Another survivor. Now there would be five if –

"The other survivors will be here soon," Nick told her, getting to his feet slowly, checking for damages. His knees would definitely be bruising soon, but other than that … just the usual nicks and scratches that came from beating his way through hordes of infected and deadly monsters.

"More … more survivors?" the girl mumbled in shock, standing stock-still beside the barred and locked door. She ran a hand over her thin face, and it was then that Nick noticed the pistol hanging limply in her right hand.

"Yeah," Nick said, putting his axe down on the table in the corner, "a woman and two men." He would've told her more, but a heart-wrenching scream from outside stopped him dead. Was that Rochelle?

The girl laughed, but it sounded more to Nick like a sob, and said, "If they get here. I haven't seen anyone in weeks. My whole family's dead. My best friend tried to – tried to fucking KILL ME. I've been here for days. I have – I'm all alone – I don't know –"

Nick's panic level was rising again. The girl appeared to be vibrating with shock, exhaustion, and terror. The knuckles of her right hand had gone white as she gripped the pistol.

He knew he needed to calm her down. He knew he needed to get the weapon away from her. But Nick couldn't move. He was rooted to the spot, his eyes wide, his fingers and toes starting to tingle. His mouth had gone dry; his tongue felt too large, too swollen for the space it was in.

The girl's dark brown eyes were wild as she stared over at Nick, her lips trembling terribly.

"DO YOU KNOW WHAT IT FEELS LIKE TO BE COMPLETELY ALONE?" she screeched, her voice unbearably high. She had raised the pistol. Nick felt his arms raise as well, his hands outstretched in front of him, palms out towards the girl.

But she didn't have any thoughts of shooting him. Instead, she turned the pistol upon herself.

"I can't live like this anymore! I just want it to end! I've – I've been so fucking alone! So fucking scared!" she told Nick, her voice now wracked with sobs. Her face had crumpled in on itself, her nose had scrunched up, and tears were streaming down her jutted-out cheekbones.

"I can't," she said, and her voice was quieter. It was if … as if she was pleading with Nick, begging him to understand.

And still Nick didn't move. He didn't even react as she pointed the gun at her own head – down by her jaw, pointed upwards at a sixty degree angle – and still didn't try to save her from herself as she stared at him.

Looked at him in the eyes.

She hesitated before pulling the trigger, still gazing at him.

Mere seconds passed.

The gunshot in the confined space was deafening. Nick dropped to the litter-strewn cement floor, covering his ears with his hands. Even while he tried to stop listening – to stop the ringing in his ears – he could still hear the splatter of blood, bone, and tissue hit the wall. He couldn't block out the sound of the girl's body – he didn't even know her name –hit the floor as well with a dull thud.

He looked over at her, and he could see all her extremities twitching. There was blood everywhere. Her legs had begun to spasm, same with her hands. There was a hole – a huge, red hole – in her head. All Nick could see was blood pooling everywhere. He could smell charred flesh and metal.

The girl's body continued to move, flailing terribly as she died.

Nick vomited, some of the stomach bile ricocheting off the floor due to the angle his head was at and hitting him in the face.

And then silence, save for the ringing in his ears, and the sobs that were tearing out of his own throat and mouth with a raw intensity.

Maybe it had been too much for Nick – too much at one time – because he blacked out, the welcoming darkness wrapping him up in its embrace. Or possibly whatever power that had let all this shit happen in the first place had taken pity on him and let him escape into the black oblivion.

Nick finally awoke to a banging on the safe house door. He knew nighttime had nearly fallen due to the darkness beyond his eyelids, and he felt cold, confused, weary, worn-out, exhausted, hungry, thirsty …

He opened his eyes – which hurt a hell of a lot – and peered through the darkness at the door. The sun was setting rapidly, but some light was still filtering in through the windows. He tried to look past the body on the floor just five feet from him, but he couldn't completely ignore it, and he couldn't avert his eyes from the remains of the unnamed girl.

He could still smell the smoke, the vomit, the smoking flesh. If he really tried hard, he could also smell his own despair.

Abruptly, an arm reached through the barred window of the safe house door, trying to reach for the locking mechanism.

Nick recognized that tattoo.

"Ellis?"

"Nick? Open the door!"

It took Nick more than enough time to actually open the door. He'd had to avoid his own puddle of sick, the astronomical amount of blood, and the girl's body before he could unlock it.

Ellis entered the room slowly, his back to Nick, a Magnum pistol he'd found raised and focused on the darkness outside the safe house. When he entered, he shut the door, locked it, and turned to Nick, his flashlight trailing along the floor until it found the older man.

Nick heard Ellis' intake of breath.

"What in the hell happened?"

Nick couldn't answer. He had retreated back to the corner where his axe was, as far away from the congealed blood as possible. As far away from the vomit as possible. Away from her body –

"Nick! What in the hell happened?" Ellis yelled, and the thirty-five year old could hear the fear in the younger man's voice.

"She – she was another survivor," Nick whispered, his cold fingers finding his own flashlight. He turned it on and focused it on Ellis' chest, illuminating the mechanic's face.

Ellis had a huge gash on his cheek which was still oozing blood. Part of his left eyebrow was gone. He was also sporting a black eye.

"Was?"

"She – she –"

Ellis didn't move, but the way his voice raised made Nick flinch as if the younger man had strode right up to him: "_What happened_?"

In Nick's mind, he was experiencing everything again. She had raised the pistol, poised it for destruction beside her head, and her eyes had found his.

She had been silently asking him to stop her. To help her. To do something – anything –

Her dark eyes had begged him, and Nick had done nothing.

"She shot herself," Nick whispered, and in his mind he heard her fall to the ground; he heard her leg kick the wall, her hand hit the cement with an odd slapping noise.

Nick sought Ellis' blue eyes, looking for comfort, for support. Ellis' irises looked like ice – freezing cold, unfriendly, uncaring ice – from across the safe house.

Nick struggled to say something, but instead he collapsed to his knees, his right hand still hanging on to the table. He couldn't stop his mind from replaying the sounds.

The gunshot. The splatter. The thuds. The silence.

He couldn't stop from seeing her eyes – so dark, like midnight, twilight, a black hole – looking into his heart.

The smells were surrounding him once more.

Was he going to black out again? Nick could only hope – pray – for that release. He couldn't deal with this.

Someone was grasping his shoulders, shaking him.

"NICK!" he heard someone yell. The voice sounded far away. Was that Ellis?

Finally … finally he could feel himself falling into weightlessness.

Nick came to slowly. He could hear someone moving around the safe house, pacing, it seemed like. No other sounds were audible.

He coughed before opening his eyes, and he winced. His throat was unbearably dry and rough. He needed –

"Here, Nick. Water," a southern voice said, and Nick's head was tipped back, and he obediently opened his mouth as water was poured down his throat.

"Thanks," he said, opening his eyes. Some sunlight was entering the room through the high upper windows.

Ellis set down a water bottle beside the older man and walked away towards the door. He expertly avoided the two puddles, and Nick quickly noticed that the girl's body was no longer in the room.

Before he could ask, Ellis said, "I put her outside."

Nick nodded, just watching the younger man look out through the window. Ellis turned around and stared down at him.

"We goin' today?" he asked Nick.

"What's the point."

"Beg pardon?" Ellis questioned, his eyes narrowing. He moved rapidly towards Nick and knelt beside him. "What the hell does that mean?"

Nick looked away, his eyes scanning the wall covered in graffiti, but he didn't take in anything he was looking at. He just couldn't look at Ellis.

"It means," Nick mumbled, "we're just going to die. Why not wait here until starvation hits?"

"We're almost at the bridge," Ellis whispered, and Nick felt as if he'd missed a step going down a flight of stairs. He could hear tears in Ellis' voice. "We were goin' to make it, Nick."

Unbridled anger was starting to seep through Nick's veins. He turned back to the younger man and snarled, "What the fuck do you know, anyways? You're a fucking mechanic."

Ellis flinched but didn't move. He looked steadily at Nick as he said, "I knew me, you, Ro, 'n' Coach coulda made it. We were a team."

"Yeah, and where are they now, you fucking hick? DEAD. And as soon as we leave, we'll probably be dead too!" Nick bellowed, leaping to his feet, and purposely knocking Ellis backwards. The younger man put out his hands to cushion his fall, and he landed in the puddle of blood. Nick heard an odd squelching sound as the mechanic's hands hit the cold and thick red liquid.

Nick didn't give Ellis a chance to get up, though, because he pushed the younger man backwards yet again.

"What the fuck, Nick!"

"You fucking don't get it AT ALL! We were NEVER going to make it! Rochelle's DEAD. Coach is too! I thought you were as well! That girl – she – she's also dead! I couldn't help ANY OF YOU. What's the fucking POINT!" Nick screamed, feeling like his throat was going to tear as he turned away from Ellis and faced the wall. He kicked it, hard, and he shouted in pain.

Ellis hadn't moved. All he did was gaze unblinkingly at Nick.

The older man was now digging in his pockets, looking for his own handgun.

There was no point in living anymore. They wouldn't make it anywhere, just the two of them.

He could end it quickly. The temple was the best place – he wouldn't be left twitching on the floor like the girl.

"Nick, don't!"

He stopped, and he hadn't even realized that he'd found his black firearm and had it up to the side of his face.

Ellis looked completely terrified now, scared beyond belief. His tanned face was blotchy – white and red fighting for dominance – and still the cut on his cheekbone oozed.

"You were the one who said you hadn't come this far to die now!" Ellis hollered, still from his place on the ground. He struggled to his feet, wiping his hands hurriedly on his overalls.

"I was wrong."

"Fuck you, Nick," Ellis said, his clefted chin shaking. "Shut up. You know you ain't that weak."

"You don't understand," the older man said, and he hated himself for feeling like he had to explain.

Ellis didn't respond; he merely stared.

"We won't make it anywhere. Ro's dead, Ellis. Same with Coach. Don't you get it? We're dead if we leave. Dead if we stay. Why the fuck shouldn't I just end it now?"

Ellis' clear blue eyes filled with tears, and he mumbled, "I need you."

"No, you don't," Nick told him. "I've been no use to anyone. I didn't go look for any of you when that Molotov was thrown. I saved my own skin. I didn't even stop that girl from – from –"

"She woulda done it even if you'd –"

"No, she wouldn't have," Nick informed the younger man, his voice gaining in decibel level yet again. "If I had – I could've stopped her. She looked at me, Ellis, she asked me with her eyes to help her, and I didn't move. I fucking didn't do anything. And then she pulled the trigger when I – when I didn't save her. She – she shot herself in the jaw – she didn't even do it right. She twitched, her body fell so hard, the splatter – she didn't die outright. She died _slowly_. The blood kept gushing, and I could hear the air escaping out of her mouth – like a harsh whistling. I couldn't – I couldn't –"

"Nick, NO!"

Nick had raised the gun again, and this time it was pointed purposely at his temple. He took no notice of Ellis as he continued to speak, his words coming out all rushed and jumbled: "I let her die. Her blood is on my hands now. I could've stopped her. I could've helped her. Maybe if I'd gone back for you three, if I'd gone to find you, this wouldn't have happened. This is my fault – I …"

Nick's vision was obscured by the tears that were welling up and escaping down by his bottom lashes. Abruptly, he laughed – a sick, tortured laugh. "Shit, Ellis, I didn't even tell her the right way to shoot herself." His grip relaxed on the pistol, and he dropped it to the cement, and then Ellis was suddenly supporting him. Nick was much taller than the twenty-three year old, but his face was buried in Ellis' shoulder nonetheless. He was crying so hard he could barely stand, and all his weight was being held up by the younger man. His body was quivering violently as he sobbed, but Ellis didn't let go.

He just let Nick cry.

"Ro 'n' Coach mighta made it," he said gently when Nick's tears had subsided. "They mighta."

Nick sniffled and pulled away. His legs felt unreal – like two blocks of lead beneath his torso. Same with his hands … they felt like ice. He couldn't stop shivering, and he felt like he was going to throw up again.

Ellis' eyes looked red as well as he took a step back. "My buddy Keith, well, 'cause of all the shit he's been through, no one thought he'd survive, but he did," he told Nick.

"How?" Nick asked, his voice barely a whisper.

"He never gave up," Ellis said simply.

A minute or two passed as both men looked at each other. Nick could hear everything in his mind again, but louder than all was Ellis saying that he needed Nick.

He swayed on his feet, and he reached out to hold on to the younger man's shoulder. In response, Ellis put his own hand on Nick's outstretched forearm.

"I'm sorry I couldn't save them," Nick muttered.

"Shit, I never blamed ya."

The thirty-five year old man in the now almost rainbow colored suit looked up, and his dark eyes met the twenty-three year old mechanic's light blue ones.

Somehow, Nick smiled. A watery smile that didn't last a substantial amount of time, but it had still been there.

Their connection was broken by the sound of the wind whistling through the window of the door. The sun was high in the sky – must've been sometime around noon. Both men moved away simultaneously and tried to look busy. Nick bent down and put the handgun back into his pocket, hoping against hope that he'd never try anything like that again.

Nick didn't know what Ellis was thinking about, but he knew where his own thoughts were …

_I need you …_

How close had he really come to blowing his own head off? His finger had been touching the trigger, that much he knew. The safety had been off. It would've happened, and Ellis would've then been in the place Nick had been only hours before: watching someone else end their life.

And then Ellis would've been alone, just like the girl. But what would Ellis have done? Stay inside the safe house and hope that Rochelle and Coach showed up? Or would he have gone on and, inevitably, died as he tried to find safety?

It didn't matter. Nick hadn't done it. He hadn't pulled the trigger.

He stopped moving and put his hands on to the table top, steadying himself.

He hadn't killed himself. He was still breathing; his heart was still beating. His brain was still sending electrical impulses all over his body. He was still alive and wearing his best white suit.

"You know," Nick said, breaking the silence, "I don't know why I wore this suit the day the infection broke out. I wasn't even going anywhere. I just chose to wear it."

He looked over his shoulder at Ellis, who was by the front door again, his hands still tinged red due to the blood. The younger man had pushed back his hat and was rubbing his forehead, and Nick could see the exhaustion that was plaguing him: it could be seen in the slump of Ellis' shoulders, the way he held himself as he waited for two people who probably would never show up.

"I'd always wondered," the younger man said, half grinning at Nick. His smile slipped, though, as he looked out the window.

"Not today."

"Huh?" Ellis asked, his voice sharp. He lowered his hat back into its regular position, and then he crossed his arms right over left in front of his chest.

Nick cleared his throat before elaborating: "Let's not move today. Tomorrow. We'll continue tomorrow."

The younger man cocked his right eyebrow as he eyed Nick.

"Thought ya said there was no point …" he informed the older man, his sentence trailing off into nothing. Nick couldn't detect any accusation, just curiosity and sadness.

"I'm sorry, Ellis. For everything … for saying that. There is a point."

Ellis sighed and said, " 'Course, you were right. We prob'ly won't make it."

"No," Nick agreed. "We probably won't," and he was overcome by the feeling of wanting to laugh at Ellis' confused expression. "But … I can't go back on what I said way before … we really have come too far to die now –"

The pistol's weight in his pocket felt even heavier, but he ignored it.

"– and way too far to die … to die by our own hands. I know Ro and Coach would've been … disgusted by me wanting to …"

"They'd've gotten it, Nick. I _do_ get it."

Nick could feel his jaw beginning to tremble again, and he fought desperately to not give in to the tears that were trying to overwhelm him. He needed to keep talking, to get the weight off his chest.

"Ellis, I'm sorry for – for putting you through all this shit. I'm sorry I – I almost gave up on you." Nick stopped to gather himself, all the while avoiding Ellis' gaze. "But … thank you for … for not … giving up on me," he said, the last few words coming out as a murmur.

A grin spread across Ellis' good natured face. "Y'know it'd take a lot more'n that to make me give up on ya, man. Shit, I ain't ever given up on Keith, and he's been through way more'n you."


End file.
